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A/N's: When I heard about how badly Richard's body had been treated, I could not let the indignity go unchallenged. Alas, the most fearsome injury I can inflict upon the perpetrators is a paper cut...

After Bosworth

I look down upon the bloody melee of Bosworth Field once more, and turn away in disgust. Cowards! Traitors! Do you fear him even now; that you must mutilate his body so? As God is my witness, your brutal acts upon lifeless flesh proclaim the vile truth of your hearts, and will stain your slanderous lies forever!

But wait – I calm myself and send a small prayer from my heart: by God's Grace I was allowed to seize his hand as he fell. I took him as his soul parted from his body, and brought him here that he might not witness his own mortal end. Has he not seen enough of blood and pain and the fickle, pallid promises of men? I look upon him now, so peaceful in repose. He never feared death, for he is a brave soul, and always knew that Death is a constant companion – Death: a friend indeed to the world-weary, and to those plagued by pain and sickness.

Will he be angry with me for snatching him away? I smooth his brow with my hand, hesitating to speak his name.

He stirs lightly, a small, rare smile tugging the corners of his mouth. He stretches, as he always does in that brief sojourn between sleep and awakening, shifting his shoulders and hips in an attempt to ease the ache in his tortured bones. I almost expect to hear the dull crack of them as he twists slightly to his right side, then his left, one hand pressing the uneven line of his ribs. He does not know, yet, that the pain of his burden will be but a memory. This place will bring him help and healing better than any charlatan's blood-letting – or torturous rites performed by misguided clerics.

He opens his eyes, at last, and I can see he struggles to take a firm rein on his senses. "Anne," he whispers, tracing my cheek with his fingers, "What dream is this?" He sits up suddenly. "Where is my armour? Where are the armies?"

"No dream, my love. Not this time. Here, you have no need of armour or weapons. Or armies of mortal men." I feel tears come unbidden as he moves swiftly to his knees, wonder and trepidation shadowing his countenance as understanding comes to him.

"I am dead…"

"Aye, Dickon. To the world below, you are. But here, you are not." I stop him as he searches for a glimpse of the plane he has so recently left. "Please," I entreat, "You might bear the sight with courage, but – Faith, it wrings my heart to think of you doing so."

He stares in silence for a moment, and then takes my hand. "Ave Maria, I know well what I would see," he says grimly, crossing himself. "To please you, my lady, I shall not look for confirmation. By the Mass, they may carve my body and scatter the pieces, but it is not me they shall answer to for their treason." He looks all around, then fixes his eyes on mine. "Is this Heaven?"

I smile as he wipes away my tears with his thumbs. "Not yet. Nor is it purgatory, or the trial of the grave. By Divine Mercy, I was given leave to wait for you…" I can withhold no longer, and throw my arms around him, his uneven contours so familiar and welcome. "…I knew it would not be long."

"Five months," says he, embracing me with fervour. "I trow they were the longest months of my life: I would pray every night to see you in dreams."

"I came whenever I could."

"And I give thanks for it!" He sighs. Longing lines his brow. "Edward…"

"Our son passed through this place – so young, and unfettered with the wiles of the world – he has gone on before us like an arrow from the bow. He is well and whole, strong and hearty. What adventures he will seek and find are known only unto God."

He holds me even closer. "What becomes of us?"

"I cannot pretend to know, though I was granted permission to give you news of days to come, to lighten the sore ignominy of the years following the end of your earthly reign." His look darkens. He knows already how the lies will grow in the telling, and blur the boundaries of truth. "Take heart, dear Richard! In days that are yet to dawn, people will open an object that is like a book – and yet it is not a book. The book-that-is-not contains an entire library, and a printing press. With it, missives great and small are written and read, and from it, letters are sent beyond land and sea, with more haste than on the wings of the wind!"

My remedy for his mood is to coax him out with riddles – and in proven fashion, the fire of inquiry ignites in his eyes as his renowned energy sets spurs to his intellect. My Dickon laughs, delighted. I used to give him riddles to rest his mind from the troubles of the court – before I fell ill – and he was ever driven to solve them.

"Anne, I missed you," he proclaims, with all the fierce, honest loyalty of his heart. "So I was right to champion the cause of the printing press!"

"You were, my king, and that cause will stand you in good stead. From it, the quiet, persistent voice of truth will wear down the jagged slanders of your enemies. Your people will never forget you, and many will speak in your favour. From lands we have never seen, across a globe wider than we ever suspected, many people will send you the blessing of goodwill—"

My words are cut short as he pulls me into his lap and regards me with pretended severity. "Using this 'book-that-is-not'?"

"Aye, they will."

"Faith! I should like to see such a thing."

I ruffle his hair fondly. "May it please God, one day, perhaps you shall."